


Eleven Dances With The King of Hell

by ceeainthereforthat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Anonymous Sex, Canon Compliant, Fellatio, Height Differences, Invisibility, M/M, Masturbation, Rimming, Safer Sex, power switch Sam Winchester, soulless!Sam Winchester - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceeainthereforthat/pseuds/ceeainthereforthat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you dance with the devil, it's not always the devil who walks away unscathed. </p><p>Interstitial, damn close to canon Crowley/soulless!Sam Winchester. (no, seriously.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eleven Dances With The King of Hell

 

**Var. 1 Contrapunto, Solo voce**

 

The King of Hell celebrated.

Well he'd won, hadn't he? It surprised even him, but Sam had triumphed. Even when it seemed that he missed his chance, he pulled out another somehow and cast himself into the pit. Spilling the right guts put Crowley on top, victorious.

Celebrating. Because he won the race to the top.

Sam Winchester paid the price.

Crowley regretted that. But his regret came from a weird symptom of the potential that brimmed and promised to spill out of Sam Winchester with the right touch, the right push _. It_ madeSam Winchester _delicious_. He made demons lose their reason over the chance to touch it, to get close, to drink it in, and most of them didn't even know why.

Everyone had tried to get a taste of Sam Winchester. Every demon assigned to him did their jobs while dancing with the temptation to get close. Everyone gave in, gave it a shot, tried to get a taste.

But for Crowley? It was just the instinctive thirst for power. That was all. However...

Crowley has a photo on his iPhone. It's a shot of Sam in profile, broad shoulders up by his ears, elbows on the counter, interlaced fingers nested in the curve between chin and lip, that lock of hair that fell along his cheekbone. Pensive, and not looking at the menu laid out before him, brown hair haloed by the low western sun shining in the diner's windows, blazing it to auburn rather than ashy gold. He paid no attention to the man in the black suit drinking coffee. Had no idea who he was. But Crowley knew Sam Winchester.

Everyone in hell knew.

He's alone, in this picture. Dean still gone, still telling Alistair to go to perdition, bravely enduring the torment of Prometheus. Ruby hadn't yet returned to push Sam down the path of good intentions. He sat alone, lost in thought, or maybe prayer.

Maybe he still prayed in those days.

Crowley knows every highlight and shadow of that photo, from the coppery flare of the hair that flips over the collar of his flannel shirt of the day -- a tartan of crottle buffed brown, faded elderberry blue-gray, threads of orchil lichen rose and the yellow from St. John's wort -- oh, Crowley knew that tartan, all right. He remembers the count of threads that made it, and how the woolen ells still smelled when they were bolted and dry, and it had curled his bowel to see _that face_ with _that plaid_ on his shoulder. The shock struck him dumb. Then he fumbled the phone from his pocket and snapped the photo, tucked it up in his sleeve and quietly left, the sinking western sun stinging his eyes into a squint and making them water.

Crowley doesn't take the phone out of his pocket to look at it.

He's celebrating, after all.

"To the King of Hell, congratulations," he muttered, and washed it with peat smoke and the saltwater tears of fishing widows, the shiver in his nose the scent of an unstruck match as the stone-cold whisky warms over his tongue.

*

It is mildly irritating that any angel can simply walk into Hell, and that they never visit when they're actually wanted. Crowley had to find the angel he wanted, but fortunately there weren't many places to look.

"Ah, Castiel. Angel of Thursday. It's not your day, is it?"

"It is Saturday afternoon, Crowley."

Crowley knew Castiel blew down into Hell, fought his way to a certain pit, and then left again. Crowley knew that Castiel stood high in the ranks of Heaven, the favored son of an absent father, but he hadn't known quite how powerful that made him until then.

Castiel invisibly watched Dean rake leaves. His light was diminished. Crowley understood what he's doing here, staring at the reason for everything he's done for years.

The struggle in Heaven must not be going well.

"Cas, Cas," Crowley said. "Charmingly literal, as ever. You still watching your favored mortal sleep instead of getting your own?"

He must have expended too much trying to rescue Sam, and now here he is, because his efforts are failing. Desperate. Staring at the anchor of his life, meditating on the meaning Dean gave him, looking at the reason why he must be strong enough to go on.

Crowley _loved_ doubt and desperation. He could sell a desperate man anything. Especially the thing that he needed the most.

"You came here for a reason, Crowley. Since the apocalypse has been averted, I feel inclined to ask after the reason for your visit."

He'll listen. He'll give Crowley just five minutes...

And that's all the best closer in Hell will need.

"Walk with me, featherface, and poke holes in my brilliant plan. I think I have an idea that will help the order of things...above and below."

Castiel fell into step with Crowley, the air rustling around unseen wings.

 

**Var. 2: Rumba (I put a Spell on You)**

 

There were no hard feelings, no harm done, but Growly needed a little more attention when Crowley used him for intimidation instead of introducing him to dinner.

"Good boy, Growly, that's a lad. See that? Get it!"

He'd known that negotiation with Bobby would come due. He'd been waiting for the summoning as soon as he'd learned that the Winchesters had done it. Again.

Well, he'd been waiting for the summoning soon after he'd learned.

Crowley slipped his hands into his pockets and looked over the transitioning landscape of Hell. He'd been making changes, but not everywhere. Nor would it ever be everywhere, honestly. The renovations were transitioning well, and the staff still had to figure out the benefits of the new way, but easing the way for some of the old-timers didn't cost him much.

And Hellhounds had to feed, after all.

"Good boy, Growly. You see it? See it? Get it!"

Crowley evaluated the scream that followed. Not bad. Must be new. He stood and listened, mind wandering, feet still.

If Bobby knew what Crowley needed his soul for, he probably would have given it without even a murmur. But he couldn't ever know the use of a soul or what debts they paid, what promises you could trade for them, how valuable souls truly were...or that Crowley ran so low on resources that he needed to kite the cost and hope his investment paid off.

His investment _had to_ pay off. Not just the endgame he proposed, but this first part of the larger plan had to succeed. It's wasn't just about consolidating his power and making his handpicked candidate for God an indebted ally. What they worked to achieve would solve a lot of problems, answer a lot of questions.

Since no one on Earth could be as valuable a tool as Sam and Dean Winchester, their plan _needed_ Sam and Dean Winchester.

Simple as that. Castiel understood the need for success, and they both understood the need for secrecy. That unrest in Heaven helped no one, and an Angel in charge up there who didn't despise humans was better for everybody.

Still. He hated juggling costs like this.

"Growly! That's enough, boy. Let's go home."

*

The spell that summons Crowley won't summon anyone _but_ Crowley. The spell was attuned to him precisely, so when someone used it, the energies reached out to touch him even from the beginning. The feelings became familiar.

It started with a vibration that rippled along the soles of Crowley's feet, prompting the desire to move. The first few times, he didn't know what the restlessness heralded.

He knew this time.

_Oh, Bobby._

Crowley stroked his forehead, flicked his fingers, and dismissed his tailor. What could he have come up with in so short a time? Crowley moved over to his desk, buttoning his waistcoat in the four strides to the corner. Crowley had expected that Bobby wouldn't give up. His jacket rested on a curved ebony hanger, and he settled it on his shoulders, swinging his arms experimentally. His new British tailor had stubbornly insisted that smaller armscyes would improve movement, and damn, he was right. The back didn't strain at all.

The flask rested in the inside pocket of his coat. He spun the top open to sneak a sip before Bobby could add his blood and finish the spell. He didn't need the spell to finish, but he needed to hold the belief in that spell alive. There's a lot of chanting, and a definite order to adding the herbs and final words as the blood hit.

Perhaps his flask needed a top up.

The first drop of blood hit the cauldron, and Crowley took the flask away from his lips, shrugging against the hair rising on his neck.

That isn't Bobby's blood.

That son of a bitch...

The second drop struck. A picture forms in his mind's eye. A bed, a television, the artifacts of sixty year old decorating.

That's a motel room.

One more sip, to brace himself. Just one.

The third drop landed. The itching climbed up over his toes like the kiss of flames, raced to engulf him, the power of the spell insisting that he step through _now_ \--

There wasn't a nearby threshold to lean on, so Crowley finished the gesture of tipping the flask to his lips and watched Sam Winchester wrap gauze around the palm of his hand.

He knew Sam was alive, but to see him in the flesh...oh, what flesh. Sam Winchester was always tall, always the picture of brute health, but he'd been hitting the iron. His shoulders were broader, his arms thicker, the V-shape of his torso more exaggerated... even his thighs bulged thicker than he remembered. Sam had put on at least twenty pounds of muscle.

And Sam Winchester waited patiently while Crowley looked him over, head to toe and back again. "Oh. This is the part where I talk. Hello, Sam."

Sam didn't reply, but he caught Crowley's gaze before he looked down the King of Hell's body, and back up again.

That was when Crowley knew that Sam had changed. The earnest young man before Hell would never stare him down so coolly. "Reports of your demise have been slightly exaggerated, I see," Crowley said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Castiel won't answer my prayers," Sam answered. "So I thought I'd ask you. How did I get out of the pit?"

Castiel, you rotten little shit, having a way to refuse the call. Now Crowley's stuck with the bag. "Haven't the slightest, Jolly Green, but it's nice of you to ask me to drop in." he offered the flask. "Drink?"

 

**Var. 3: The Hustle**

 

Crowley managed to talk his way out of that first summoning. He got away without even losing a hair on his head.

But there was definitely something different about Sam Winchester. He looked right. Moved right. Probably smelled right, though he didn't get close enough to check.

Alas. But maybe Crowley would get a chance to find out, if the tingling soles of his feet were any indication.

"Good talk," he told the werewolf, and let the last fingernail fall into the emesis basin. He had just enough time to wash his hands before Sam finished chanting the spell.

"Again, Sam? One would think that you couldn't wait to see me again." Crowley eyed Sam, who pressed gauze to the inside of his arm. "And someone might wonder if you're self-harming."

"I seem to remember that cell phones don't get signal in Hell."

"A fair point. Where is this mid-century motor hotel? Utah?" Crowley gestured at the gold satin and chartreuse flocked curtains. "No. Damask that bold wouldn't occur to the bland. And we're not on the ground floor, are we?"

"It's Philadelphia, and it's the fifth floor," Sam answers. "Vampires."

Ah. Now Crowley knew why the summoning spell. "Still on the job, then. Not worried about making a speedy exit?"

"My grandfather is alive," Sam said. He corked bottles, locked jars, and slotted them back into a wooden case full of compartments, the wood scarred by decades of use. "You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?"

"Sam, your grandfather was not a resident of Hell," Crowley laid one hand over his heart. "Scout's Honor."

Samuel Campbell never really settled in.

"Am I supposed to believe you were a Scout?"

"No," Crowley smirked. "But I bet that was a family reunion. Did you discuss it over shotguns or revolvers?"

"One of each."

"Oh, to be a fly on the wall," Crowley reached inside his coat. "Drink?"

"Sure.” Well that was a surprise, coming from Sam Winchester. “What is it?"

"Craig. Single malt scotch. You have any of those charming glasses they wrap in that crinkly paper?"

"They're even still in the crinkly paper. Have a seat."

This hotel room had a pair of raspberry velvet wingback chairs flanking a marble-topped occasional table. It...nearly worked with the chartreuse. A for effort. The carpet was wall-to-wall gray, the texture of the pile disturbed.

Crowley glanced up at the bumps in the ceiling.

"No Devil's traps," Sam said. "I only wanted to talk."

"And now we're having a drink?" Crowley said. "Just like old chums."

"Think about it. I don't want anything from you. There isn't anything I need to strong-arm you into. Nobody's fate is riding on me tricking you into some kind of Baroque double cross. And honestly?" Sam set the unwrapped glasses down. "After everything that's happened...I don't have a lot of friends."

"You're saying we're friends, then."

"No, I'm saying I don't have a reason to stick a knife in you. Armageddon's done. Dean...has his family. And I'm not sure I should take Samuel's offer."

"Well...if you're looking for a little advice."

"Pour.

Crowley unbuttoned his coat and sat down.

*

He watched Sam when he had a moment.

It's harder now that he's King of Hell. There were so many demands on his time and so many people who wanted to know where he was. But he gets enough moments to watch.

Sam Winchester didn't need to sleep. He worked with Samuel and his family, he threw himself into hunting, he researched and read and worked without the interruption of the need for sleep. He's better now, with no conscience to chain him.

Also, he has a lot more sex.

Every demon on the job of minding Sam fell to that allure. Many of them never tried too hard, for fear of alienating him. Some succeeded, but Crowley knew this from reports.

It wasn't that mortals could resist him so much as he didn't have nearly as many reasons to say no. Sam often left them in sated sleep while he walked, and Crowley would follow, unseen and un-noticed--

Heh.

The devil on his shoulder.

So Crowley was standing right there when Sam stopped to turn at the voice from the shadows who asked--

"Hey. You got a light?"

—and then stepped out of the windbreak of a dim doorway, unlit hand-rolled joint in the corner of his lips, empty paper pack of matches in hand.

Lovely young man. Short dark hair, faintly olive-toned skin, a sleeveless shirt snug enough to show a carefully muscled body and lean, well cut jeans. Crowley noted the young man's smile, the interested traveling look, and followed it to a Sam Winchester who looked back.

Oh. Really.

"Yeah." A Zippo lighter came out of his pocket with a brassy _clink!_ and the scratch of the strike wheel.

When the man curled his hand around Sam's before leaning in to light up, Sam didn't pull back. "You got a name, handsome?" sharp herbal scent burned, blended with a curious rankness - sage leaves, and irritated skunks. The herb crackled a bit as the young man drew on the joint, then offered it.

Sam raised a hand to stop its course. "Do I need one?"

That wasn't at all like Good Boy Sam Winchester. Crowley was pretty sure he liked that.

The cruiser struck an attitude of consideration. The ember glowed orange around his face. Very nice cheekbones.

Good lips.

"No, I guess you don't," the man replied, and when he led Sam out of sight, Crowley couldn't help but follow.

 

**Var. 4: Courante**

 

Crowley needed to relax about this. Five days ago, his feet started tingling and he nearly ran to a mirror to check his tie. But the sensation passed and didn't return.

The irritation made him clumsy with the skinwalker, and he lost it before the creature could give up any information.

It's ridiculous. So this time, there's no-- _not much_ anticipation when the view of Sam's hotel room rose with the first drop of his blood. Crowley didn't breathe a sigh of relief. He didn't check the set of his tie.

He's pathetic. He counted the seconds to the end of the spell.

"Hello, Sam."

"Crowley," Sam waved at a table - chrome and Formica, the chairs a faded red - where a bottle of Balvenie, a carafe of water, and two glasses waited.

"Stretch. A social call?"

"Scotch is a bribe," Sam replied. He replaced spell components in his antique box - now with warding symbols, oh dear. Some for angels, some for demons, and a good old hoodoo quincunx. "I couldn't find your brand."

"Not surprised," Crowley answered. "This will do, well enough. Have you tried it?"

"Samuel isn't killing all the monsters we meet." Sam set the box on the floor in the motel room's closet and put shoes in front of it. "But they're disappearing. So I thought..."

Crowley hastily studied the bottle once Sam straightens up. "Hmm?"

"Two possibilities. You already know all about it, or you know nothing about it."

Crowley leaned one elbow on the table, thumb along the corner of his jaw, and said nothing.

Sam rolled his eyes and went on. "So either you know all about it, and can tell me what's really going on, or you know nothing about it, but are alerted to something interesting - that I'm probably going to look into."

"Which do you think is correct?"

Sam dropped into the chair adjacent. "That you already know about it."

"You know, when you're not trying to kill me, I appreciate your cleverness, Sam. Yes, Samuel is capturing monsters for interview purposes, and he's gathering them for me. Now are you going to kick over the apple cart, or can we make a deal?"

"No deals," Sam rocked back in that kitchen chair, then forward with a thump. He reached for the bottle and poured rather more than a dram for each. "I don't want to make a deal with you, Crowley."

"If you don't want a deal from me, then I wonder what you do want."

"Because," Sam continued, "Anyone who winds up in a deal with you gets screwed. You screwed Bobby, and everyone thought you were playing that straight."

"Oh infamy, Sam. Everyone treats me so unfairly. I healed his legs."

"I know. You didn't have to do that, but you did it. You said you'd give the soul back, and you didn't. But I don't think you didn't give Bobby his soul back because you felt like being a dick. You had a use for it, a reason to keep it."

"You are walking very close to many secrets that could get you killed just for knowing, Stretch." He shrugged and let the scotch settle over his tongue. A little too clean, a little too simple. Crowley swallowed. "Not that someone wouldn't bring you back."

"So give me a reason to stay cool with the knowledge. You want information from the monsters."

"Yes. And it's going to be a long haul."

"Okay, so. You want them for power."

"Of course I do. How much do you need to know, in order to be satisfied enough that you won't fuck it up just to see what it does?"

"Enough that I understand why you're doing it. You weren't a big fan of Armageddon, so whatever you're doing, you're not bringing it back."

"You're right. I'm aiming towards stability and security, and let's be frank. A lot of power. Oh, demons will still be double black eyed bastards and they'll still toy with mortals for their games. But tell me why you don't want to make a deal to get the information you want."

Sam taps the base of his glass on the table, rocking it on the cuts meant to imitate crystal. "Because I'm starting to think that if you get in a deal with somebody, you have to screw them. Maybe it's in the Crossroads Demon manual."

"Oh, it's in the demon manual period. So if we don't make a deal, then what happens?"

"Then we can help each other. I can understand what you're doing with the monsters, help, if it benefits me, not help, because I don't want to screw you over--"

Crowley thumped the table twice. "Pity. This one's sturdy."

Sam smirked, not a trace of his _shut up, Dean_ face. "I think we can get along. Yeah, you're a devil and not to be trusted. But for some reason, I think that if there's no deal to screw, we can play it straight. If we can't help each other, we won't get in each other's way, at least. But if there is a deal, then old habits might come to play. So, no deals."

"You're sure about this."

"No, it could go horribly wrong. But it makes the most sense."

"Well what do you know, young Sam. We really are sharing a drink with buddies. Haven't had a friend in ages. Cheers."

 

**Var. 5: Rhapsody (in Blue)**

 

That first bottle lasted four visits. The level low was enough on the fourth night that, when Crowley produced a small bottle of a simple 15-year, they wound up opening it.

Crowley told Sam stories about being a literary agent, and didn't tell him about [the time he had a Carver Edlund book in his slush pile.](http://ceeainthereforthat.tumblr.com/post/75566644712/oh-yeah-funny-story) But he did tell him one from last week. "Every once in a while, Sam, you just have to individualize someone's torment. You make a deal for ten years of obscene wealth and fame. So, since you _know_ how it's going to end, you take the lid off. Why not? you're going to hell anyway. But no one had time for him just then."

"What did you do to him?"

"Locked him in an infinite library and every book on the shelves was either Moby Dick or the Old Man and the Sea."

"You are a bastard," Sam laughed, and leaned forward to playfully push at Crowley's wrist.

It felt good to laugh at a joke. The ghost of Sam's hand pressed his cuff links into his wrist, again and again.

"Another?"

"The same, again."

"Right." A small alarm chirped. Sam's phone. "And I should eat." Sam got to his feet, and leaned left, then right, raised his arms to press his elbows behind his back.

Something popped, but Crowley's gaze caught on an inch of skin, softly furred, and a glimpse of the inguinal notch, where the hem of Sam's t-shirt had raised. When he remembered himself (and the hem had lowered), Sam was smirking at him.

"Bowflex?"

"Bows," Sam answered, and walked to the kitchenette. "Figure arrows tipped in dead man's blood would help us catch a vampire pack."

Sam ate a lot of salad, and preferred hotel rooms with kitchens for a reason. Before long, he had greens and chopped vegetables, with seeds, cheese, and sliced chicken breast tossed and set on two plates.

"It doesn't do you any good, but eat."

"Feeding me? That's mating behavior," Crowley said.

"Shut up and eat your dinner, Highness."

It's as good as any salad Crowley had when he pretended to be a literary agent. Maybe better, since the chicken's not dry and there's plenty of it. It's clean--bright, bitter aragula in counterpoint to ginger, juiced lemons and honey dressed over sharp white cheddar and olives, a burst of fresh mint.

"This is... this is good," Crowley chases a blueberry with his fork. "It's—no, this is amazing. What are these?"

"Pea shoots."

"Did you mug a farmer's market?"

"You should try one of my smoothies. Don't let the bright green fool you."

"You have those for breakfast?"

"Sometimes lunch. We're not getting close to what you're after," Sam said between bites. "Children disappearing and calls to child therapists are up, there's mini-spikes in mothers dying of malnutrition."

"Changelings," Crowley said.

"Yeah that's what I think. Huge network. Citywide."

"Found the mother?"

"Not yet. Will this scheme of yours really stabilize heaven and hell?"

"It's a good bet."

"Good bet it'll make you powerful."

"Good bet it will. Good bet you'll still have plenty to do, hunting down monsters."

Sam shrugged. "What would I do otherwise? You want more?"

"I'm good. Still haven't heard from Castiel?"

"Gave up trying."

"It bother you?"

"I know it should," Sam said, after a pause. "Should we open the next bottle?"

"You can hold your liquor down, Stretch."

"Yeah," Sam said. "It takes a lot to get me tipsy since I came back up from the pit. Just let me get the dishes."

"Tipsy."

"None of your lip, Highness," Sam said, and cleared the dishes away with a busboy's expertise. He stood at ease on the green and black linoleum tiles in bare feet. "Just be a minute. What have we got this time?"

Crowley stared at Sam's back, the muscles so deep his t-shirt floats across empty air between his traps and dorsals. "Laphroaig. Now you're going to have a peaty drink, contrast it with that Balvenie you bought."

"I'm cool with it," Sam said over the running water.

"He's cool with it. All right then." Crowley poured them each a stout three fingers, refreshed the carafes of water with more ice.

Sam returned with the front of his gray t-shirt wet.

"You should change out of that," Crowley says, and waited for the deflection.

"You're right, I should."

And he took it off.

And sat down.

That little shit.

He picked up the glass and stuck his nose in it. "That's peat, all right. Salt air." Then he's got a mouthful, and he closed his eyes. He nodded gently, and Crowley can't do much more than stare.

That little shit.

"Peat. Oak. Mostly it's a campfire on the beach at night. It's bolder than the Balvenie for sure."

Crowley leaned back to rest against the wall, and rested an elbow on the table. "Ice?"

"One," Sam spoons one out of the bucket.

"You learn," Crowley said. "I favor it with a little water. One ice cube's worth should do it. Are you going to get a shirt?"

"Are you fearing for your virtue?"

" _My_ virtue?" Crowley laughed. "Hi, I'm Crowley. I'm a demon." A demon with a flutter in his middle and a tiger by the tail.

Sam didn't smile, didn't laugh. He stared until Crowley's chuckle dried up and the smile smoothed out. Kept staring while he picked up the cheap hotel tumbler and drained his glass, chin up. Crowley watched the sliding of his throat as he swallowed.

"Maybe you should," Sam said.

Crowley heard the clatter of his overturned chair before he realized he stood up, and the scrape of another chair sliding over the floor as Sam got to his feet, and damn it, Crowley tilted his head back as Sam towered over him. 

Half a second after their lips met Crowley thought _oh, shit,_ but then the catch and hum of a soul marking...didn't happen.

It's just a kiss.

The room spins. Any kiss, since he became a crossroads demon. Any kiss no matter who started it would transfer a mark on the human's soul, declaring it his. He tortured, he flayed, he fingerpainted with blood, but he never, _never_ kissed anyone unless it was to seal a deal.

This was just a kiss.

Sam pulled back. Peered into Crowley's face. "What."

"It's been a few hundred years since somebody did that," Crowley said.

"Deals don't count?"

"They certainly do not."

"Well, Highness. Tell me. Do you want to break this dry spell or not?"

Was Sam _asking_ him? Yes. If Crowley said no, Sam would step back and there it would end. Back to friends having a few drinks.

He hated himself for wondering what this meant.

"Yes."

Sam bent down and kissed him again, and Crowley rose to meet him.

Some of the kisses he'd gotten to seal deals gamely tried to make the best of it. Most were flavored with sweet, sweet discomfort. Sam kissed with enthusiasm, aggression, long, long practice, and.

Sam kissed like it's the sexiest thing he'd done in a year, kissed a shorter, balding, middle-aged man like it made him hard. He kissed with complete focus, as if he would just keep going until he decided he was done, even if someone walked in. Sam kissed Crowley, and it made him feel like the center of the world. It made the small of Crowley's back ache to be touched, another thing he hadn't felt since his heart beat fast and hard in his chest, younger, taller, but still shorter than—

It's too much. Sam's hands cradled his head as the bigger man kissed him. Too much.

Crowley set his heels back on the floor. "You're too tall, Stretch, I'm getting a crick in my—"

Sam hauled him back and landed in the chair with Crowley straddling his lap. Sam dragged him down by the nape of his neck for another one of those overwhelming kisses. His fingers wove through the short hairs at the back of his head, thumbs rubbed against the shadow of his jaw, bristly where Sam's was smooth. Crowley caught shaving soap in Sam's scent. Sam shaved in the evening. For him?

"Take your tie off," Sam said, and bit Crowley's lip.

"Excuse me?"

"Take your tie off."

"You seem to think I'm going to-"

"You're going to. Take your tie off."

"I'm more of a driver."

"That's real cute, Highness. I'll remember that when I'm in the mood. The shirt, too."

Crowley stuck his finger into the heart of his tie knot and pulled it apart. Sam watched. Something in that little smirk curved with approval.

Crowley has a heart, and it pounds. He popped the collar of his shirt up and slid the hand-woven silk tie free.

Sam put his hand out, palm up, and Crowley laid it in his hand before he even realized what he'd done.

"Unbutton your shirt."

Sam watched Crowley obey. He never looked away, never let up. Crowley had to look down.

"Eyes up here, Highness," Sam lifted Crowley's chin. "Two more buttons. Then the cuffs. And then give it to me."

That brief, breathy whimper came from _him. Crowley._ He looked back into Sam's face and undid his cuff links, the ones Crowley's vessel favored the most, made from the keys of an upright Underwood: Q, W, E, R.

"Put those somewhere safe."

Crowley shoves them into the front pocket of his trousers, and lays his black-dyed lawn shirt in Sam's hand. They're both shirtless now, and Sam drops that intense gaze to his tattoos. The chest hair. The softness layering just under his skin.

Crowley didn't squirm under that examination. Quite.

Sam tossed Crowley's shirt and tie at one of the beds. "I don't hurt. Well. Not unless you want," Sam says. "And not this time, anyway." Sam's hand slides down Crowley's spine, down, and Crowley knew his eyes went wide because Sam smirked a little wider and traced a widdershins circle, four nails dragged across the small of his back...

Crowley shoved himself up against the fly of Sam's jeans, grinding in an insistent circle. He held onto Sam's shoulder, dug his nails into the thick muscle of Sam's trapezius.

He's the one making that noise. Those noises.

"I do like a moaner, Highness," Sam chuckled. "And right there, hmm?"

"There," Crowley agreed, and Sam guided his head back for more kisses.

He tried to pull away, to get a breath, to say something that would make him come back down to reality but Sam held him still, his hands soft but immovable.

"I don't sleep, you know," Sam said. "I can take care of you."

Not for centuries. Not since he lived as a man. Crowley snapped his fingers and disappeared their pants, his own shoes and socks, left the underwear.

"I guess that means hurry it up?"

"Pretty please."

Sam laughed and got up. He carried Crowley, made the turn and two strides to a bed, let the King of Hell stand on his own two feet before laying him down.

Sam's body was strong, young, beautiful. Every curve and line was within reach, and he wanted all of it under his fingers, his tongue. He wanted to leave his mark on Sam's skin, the dents from teeth, a bruising kiss, something Crowley could see and know he'd done it. Crowley trailed his fingers up Sam's back, and Sam stopped kissing him long enough to say, "Try my ears."

Ears? "Oho," Crowley said, and reached up. Gently, he combed Sam's hair back, and brushed light fingers against his neck.

"And there too," Sam said. "Shit."

"I can bring you to your knees."

"If you bring a ladder."

"Cheeky. How about here?"

"Yes," Sam gasped. Oh, that's better. A little equilibrium, so Crowley's not the only one liking it. "Kiss me again."

*

Crowley was happy that he couldn't take Sam's soul with a kiss. Sam's kisses made the world disappear, made Crowley feel every beautiful thing about being in a body that got hard and wanting. But best of all, Crowley didn't have to make the choice about giving it back, didn't have to fight the temptation to keep it until he could keep Sam forever.

Sam half twisted over him, and kept kissing him while letting his right hand wander. His fingers asked, circled, and moved on if something didn't make Crowley murmur approval or grab a fistful of Sam's shoulder. But when he finally ghosted a touch over Crowley's cock, he stopped kissing to verify what he held in the circle of his hand.

"Wow," he said, and stroked down the length. "Oh, Highness. Look at you."

"You can do more than look," Crowley said.

"Always in a hurry, aren't you?" Sam asked, and skimmed his thumb along the glans.

Crowley closed his eyes and groaned. "You don't sleep, you said. We can just do it again."

"Somebody might need you back at corporate."

"I will flay them personally."

"So _violent_ , Highness," Sam chuckled. "But—"

The warm pressure of Sam lining the right side of his body lifted. Crowley grabbed after him, but he was gone, twisted the other way to open a drawer. He scrambled around to kneel between Crowley's legs and opened a fresh bottle of lube, a pair of condom packets held by his teeth.

"Ah, the 21st century," Crowley said.

"It is what it is," Sam said, pouring a generous spot of lube on one hand. The bottle went by his knee, the packets tucked under, and Crowley's hips thrust to meet Sam's encircling hands. Slippery, warm, and firm, Sam stroked him with a little twist that brought his thumb back across the head and brought the hood up.

"Careful," Crowley said. "It's been a few years." A few hundred years.

"Thought you said we could just do it again," Sam teased.

"Thought you said I was impatient."

"You are," Sam said, and tore one of the condom packets open. "And we can just do it again anyway."

Crowley watched Sam check the tip and put a little more lube inside. "Thought you were driving."

"I am."

"Then why the raincoat?"

"When was the last time you had someone else's blood on you, Crowley? Mine was eight hours ago."

Oh. "A little more recent than that."

"Then humour me." Sam slid Crowley's foreskin back with a caress, and smoothed the condom down to his fingers, gently eased the foreskin back up, and unrolled the rest of the way. He did it so smoothly it made Crowley jerk in his hands.

"Snug, but not tight?" he asked, but bent down and wrapped him mouth around the tip.

If Sam could get it all in his mouth he'd give up using him in his plans and keep him in luxury. He couldn't. But between his hands, his sucking lips, his broad, sliding tongue, and the vibration from his voice, Crowley wasn't going to last five minutes.

Maybe not even two. "Careful..."

Sam just sucked harder, squeezed tighter.

Crowley gave up with a low moan and let the feeling build, let the shivers that started in the small of his back sweep over him. He buried his fingers in Sam's hair and pulled him up a touch so he had room to rock up into his mouth, chills chasing the heat left behind by Sam's lips, oh fuck it's Sam, he's getting head from _Sam Winchester._

It's Sam Winchester who sucked his cock with so much zeal and encouraging moans that Crowley curled toward Sam's head in the three unbearable heartbeats before he came, noisy and with his heels dug into the mattress. Sam rode it with approving moans that made Crowley's spine shiver, and then he's up and next to him, grinned while Crowley found all the bits that jarred loose and gathered up his ability to talk.

"Bugger me."

"Take a breather first."

Crowley found enough strength to laugh. "Explain to me why people complain about condoms." He needed a breather. That was amazing. He was panting, and so relaxed he just wanted to bask in it.

"Well, people tell stories about how they cut down sensation. They do, but I buy the best. Thin, sized, they're better now than they were even a few years ago. Good quality lube, thin barrier dams, sturdy gloves..."

"Gloves. That's a bit medical."

Sam waggled his eyebrows. "If you want to try out _Dr. Sexy, MD_ sometime I've got scrubs in my kit."

"Maybe not that, but roleplay, huh?"

"Why the hell not, if it's fun? Drink?"

"Hang on, Moose. You haven't got yours."

"I can wait until round two."

Crowley bent to grab the other condom that was still on the bed. "Bollocks. Teach me how to put this on you."

 

**Var. 6: Interlude**

 

_And then when you don't want the angel..._

_"Crowley," Castiel said._

_"It's not Thursday."_

_"What are you doing, consorting with Sam Winchester."_

_"Is this the "If you hurt him I'll rip your wings out" speech?"_

_"He will hurt you, Crowley."_

_"Only when I ask nicely."_

_"I believe that I know you better than most. This might be an arrogant belief in my powers of personal observation." Castiel walks across the salted fields of Hell alongside its King, uncaring that the land he walks on flinches from his step._

_"And your deep insight tells you...what."_

_"That aside from an abiding belief in a code and rules, what you value the most is loyalty, Crowley."_

_Crowley halts. Castiel stands on the shuddering ground._

_"You're loyal, Castiel. Should I take to sharing scotch with you?"_

_"Sam Winchester is loyal too," Castiel says, and before Crowley can answer, he's gone in a rush of wings._

 

**Var. 7: Rock and Roll**

 

The summoning spell needed a lot of ingredients and blood. It's not the most efficient way to get in touch. Crowley fashioned a pair of coins with a simple sympathy spell a few weeks ago, so now all Sam had to do was heat or chill it and Crowley did his best to act like he didn't come running every time.

Crowley used the coin to know where Sam was, whenever Sam used it to call him. They would drink scotch, never having the same brand twice. Sometimes they didn't have a drink until after Sam had Crowley - on the bed, in one of those sturdy chairs, up on the counter in the kitchen, even lifted up by Sam's brute strength to have him right there in a rest stop's phone booth. All Sam had to do was say "Highness" and Crowley would get hard.

Sam took good care of him, just like he promised, every time.

He had the coin in his hand during a performance review meeting of the eastern seaboard crossroads demons. He was just going over motivated attitudes and presenting one of his favorite examples when it turned ice-cold.

He had to wash the coin and his hands before showing up.

Sam called him to a motel room, but Crowley knew something was up. Sam was shirtless, restless, and what might be all of his clothes were on one of the beds: folded, piled neatly, and smelling of lemon laundry products. He didn't pounce on Crowley and start in with the kissing. A bottle of Talisker rested on the table, and the liquid inside still shivered. The glasses next to it stood empty.

A light sheen of sweat made every muscle glow. He'd been exercising. Crowley poured a pair and held one out.

"Something happened."

"I got whammied by a djinn. They got away."

"You. Were under a djinn's spell?"

"Yesterday. Still feeling it."

"How did you know that?"

"You were there." Sam rolled up a t-shirt and stuck it in a bag, rolled another and crammed it in next to it. "So was Dean."

"Well. That's an interesting combination for your deepest desire."

Sam laughs, but only for one syllable, and shook his head. "Variant. It was a nightmare. I got away."

"And now you're running?"

Sam stacked the last of the t-shirts inside his gym bag. "I think they're going after Dean."

"And so. The Brothers Winchester will ride again." Crowley said.

"Not if I can help it," Sam laid folded jeans sideways to the t-shirts. "If all goes well, he won't even know I'm there."

"So why are you telling me?"

"I'll be with the family. No chance to sit and have a drink until it's over. But with luck, we'll bring you a djinn. Will that make up for it?"

"No."

"Then it's a good thing I want a send-off," Sam said.

The hollow ache in Crowley's chest filled with fizzy surprise. "You want a send-off? Incentive to come back?"

"I've got that, Highness. Nice of me to make sure you do. What do you want?"

"What do I want?" A slow grin spread over Crowley's face. "You just had to ask, didn't you. Do you remember when you joked about role-play?"

*

Crowley waited in the kitchen and couldn't stop thinking _He's going to do it_. He didn't waste time wondering what it meant. Crowley told him what he wanted, and Sam had agreed, though he said, "Here I thought you were going to want to tie me up."

"Next time," Crowley had said, and Sam had put on his shoes and gone outside to buy a drink from the vending machine.

Or maybe he'd just left.

The door to the room opened and Sam walked in.

He had a can of Mr. Pibb in one hand, and he sipped from it before coming to a stop in front of one of the beds. He glanced at the closet door, just a bit ajar, and turned away from it with a little smile.

Good. He'd taken the bait.

He'd thought Crowley would want to tie him up? He did.

But he wanted this more.

Sam set the can of soda down, toed off his shoes, and stood barefoot on the tri-toned gold shag carpet. He crossed his arms at the waist, and peeled out of his t-shirt. His hair fell back into place in a cascade, and he shook his had so it shivered down his neck.

Crowley knew Sam was a good actor, but he was impressed. Sam turned so he gave a three-quarters profile view to the closet, but avoided looking at it as if it were a movie camera.

_Apt._

Sam rubbed the bumpy ridges over his abdomen just as if he were contemplating hunger. Then his fingers drifted up to brush over a nipple, and he sighed.

This was damn good for an act. Sam undid his belt and fly, not lingering over it, and swiveled his hips as he pushed his jeans down, managing to turn his ass toward that closet door.

He's just so gorgeous. He bent to open the drawer where he kept the lube and all the things he insisted on for safe sex, and set a selection of everything on the bare surface of the side table. And when Sam lay down on the bed he kept his feet on the floor and spaced apart. He's half hard, long, uncut, and he touched himself with both hands, always changing the stroke. Sam doesn't jerk off mechanically. He did it as if his hands belonged to another, exploring different touches to discover what he liked, endlessly curious. His breaths came out noisily, but he teased himself until he's so hard the downward curve of his cock corrected to the angle that made Crowley want to kick a hole in a stained-glass window for remembering what Sam can do with it.

Then Sam raised both legs in the air and stretched to stroke his hole, angled his cock down and clamped his thighs together. His groan had Crowley across the room and on the bed with his clothes vanished so fast he might have blinked across the distance.

Sam had his eyes closed, and he smirked when the mattress coils shifted under Crowley's weight. He made an approving moan when Crowley caressed his throat to the edges of his ears. Sam opened his eyes...

And froze when there was no one there.

He reached out, and Crowley _shifted_.

Sam's hand passed through Crowley like so much air. He tried to sit up, and invisible hands pushed him back down, traced a light-as-air path back up Sam's neck.

"Crowley?"

Nothing but fingernails grazing along his collarbones answered him. Sam shivered and held still, looked for a sign that Crowley was there.

Soft lips and warm breath traced Sam's jaw, and Sam turned his face to kiss him, open mouthed and with the sweetest soft moans. Sam groped through thin air trying to reach him. He grunted when his hands landed on skin, opened his eyes again to see nothing.

Sam reached for Crowley with both hands and pulled him down, then made a frustrated growl when Crowley shifted and disappeared from touch.

"Should have tied me up."

The picture of Sam struggling against leather straps, sturdy rope, and helpful positioning bars bloomed in Crowley's mind. It's so hot Crowley considered it. But the potential for greater frustration, sweeter torment in shifting every time Sam tries to assert himself? That was better.

So Crowley left Sam free, and moved to kneel between his legs. He pushed Sam's legs up, and Sam hooked his hands under his knees to keep them raised and spread.

The vision of Sam writhing in cuffs and ropes melted. Sam willingly spreading himself for Crowley's sight and Crowley's touch was right here, breathing hard with his head raised, looking for him.

"Are you there?" he asked, and Crowley leaned in close enough to trail his tongue along one thigh.

"Oh holy fuck." Sam let his head drop back on the bed. "Fuck, how did you know about this."

Everyone loves a succubus. Sam had certainly read the lore. Crowley can't really do what that order can do, but he had some ideas on how to make up for it.

Crowley leaned back and plucked a dam from the stack, dotting a quarter's width of lube in the center.

The surface of Sam's hole was flat, tightly wrinkled, the flesh a spot of pink against darker shaded skin. Crowley touched his tongue to it almost delicately, and the groan Sam gave is a little shocked. He didn't pull away or let go of his legs. He nodded and murmured, "Oh, do that."

That's a yes, and so Crowley skimmed along Sam's thigh with light hands and a stubbled cheek and breathes in - the tang of soap, perfumed with sandalwood and orange, and just Sam, round and warm and vetiver earthy. He slipped the dam in place while he nuzzled Sam's balls and just breathed him in for a moment before turning his attention downward.

Crowley pressed his nose against Sam's perineum, gave him the Devil's kiss, and listened.

The flat of his tongue, pressed firmly and rippling made Sam groan low in his throat. A sucking kiss jolted a grunt from him, breathy but louder as he went on. Circling with the point of his tongue made Sam squirm and pull his knees wider, closer to his shoulders, and whimper for more. He all but begged for the dart of Crowley's tongue to press inside, but Crowley waited, drunk on every noise and gasp Sam made. He waited while Sam wiggled and groaned and pushed against his tongue, making it clear what he wanted and still Crowley waited, until Sam whispered

"Please,"

And then Crowley pressed inside, since Sam asked so nicely.

The moans and curses Sam gasped, his legs pulled even wider, the melting of all tension from getting exactly the deep tongue-fucking he wanted was pure gold. Crowley's never been so hard, living or dead, as he was at Sam's whispered plea.

Sam's gentle rocking against Crowley's thrusting tongue was faster, more insistent.

"I want more."

Of course he did.

Crowley had put it about that he'd sold his soul for three more inches. It was a petty and frivolous reason. After four centuries, hardly anyone had reason to remember that story. But Crowley hadn't chosen this vessel merely for the comfortable identity, mobile work environment, and the contract-rich world of aspiring writers competing for a five digits or fewer Amazon ranking.

Sam was going to need more than just a kiss to be ready.

Crowley leaned back and grabbed the bottle and a black nitrile glove that waited patiently on the nightstand. Sam watched them float in the air and stared at the empty air just above it. He'd come remarkably close to looking Crowley in the eye.

"I want you to fuck me."

Crowley bit down on his lip to keep from answering. The glove filled out, and he soon had Sam writhing on Crowley's fingers and groaning. Sam gasped every time Crowley curled his fingers up to rub his prostate and jolted with it. He watched hungrily as Sam touched himself.

Oh, his face. Sam's brow wrinkled as he clenched his teeth, only to go completely smooth and open mouthed a moment later, as mobile and expressive as the noises he made. He used both hands to play with his cock. He made a gentle fist and moved between Crowley's stretching fingers and into his hand, eyes shut tight and his canines bared. Then he gathered his balls up in both hands to squeeze them, and brushed Crowley's fingers with his own.

It was an accident. Crowley drew back anyway. Sam objected, bearing down on his fingers to try and keep them, but he stilled completely to watch the lube bottle float through the air once more.

He'd still have to be careful.

The glove joined the dam, discarded, and Crowley stood up to roll the condom on. He wasn't as good at it as Sam was, but Sam stared at its progress, and then when it hovered just at the edge of the bed. Crowley would have to be slow. Even being generous with the mound of clear gel pooling on his invisible palm, then spread over himself.

Sam drew his knees up toward his shoulders again, and nodded. He watched as Crowley grabbed his thighs and pulled him down to the edge of the bed - not bad, moving the Moose.

And not bad, making him remember to breathe when the heavy head of Crowley's cock rested right on the relaxed entrance. Sam had tensed for just one moment, but relaxed, nodded again. Crowley watched his breath, and on the exhale, pressed just a bit, and Sam bore down like this wasn't his first tango.

Crowley squashed the desire to find out who that was. Not his business. Here and now, he watched Sam's face for a grimace, set his hands on his thighs to feel for tension. He matched the slow count of Sam's breath to his own and pressed, waited for the resisting squeeze and the shock of the increment stretch to pass so he could conquer a little more.

"Faster," Sam said. "More."

Crowley stopped his tongue. He's not for beginners, but on the next breath out he tested Sam's mettle.

Sam flinched. Crowley went still, but Sam pushed farther with gritted teeth, curled up on his elbows.

"Kiss me."

Crowley pushed Sam's knees back and Sam caught the back of Crowley's neck to pull him in, blew out a hard breath and a noise Crowley knew had to be pain. He was tighter than a clenched fist, feverishly hot.

"Push my legs, yes, like that."

He was so determined to take it. Sam threw his head back, jaw clenched, and Crowley drew back to Sam's "Don't" and slipped forward. This is enough. He doesn't have to get any farther than this.

Sam's face fascinated, mobile with determination and pleasure and pain scudding across his expression like a storm moving in.

Crowley kept his movements shallow. Careful. It took a bit to realize that he'd gone deeper, spurred by Sam's throaty groans and the easing of his resistance. Sam got up on his elbows again and dragged Crowley to bring his weight forward, trapping his cock between taut muscles and furry softness, tricking Crowley into sinking all the way inside.

Sam was flexible. His knees touched his chest, spread wider, dropped another inch. "Faster," Sam said. "It hurts good, fuck me."

Meet Sam Winchester, Power Switch. He spread a little wider, raised his head a little more, found Crowley's chin with his lips. Crowley ducked the kiss and drew back, holding Sam's hips. His biceps were going to bitch at him tomorrow. He didn't care. Sam's shoulders hit the bed, Crowley raised his hips and drove deep.

"Fuck!" Sam screwed his eyes shut. "Don't stop. Hard." Sam reached for his cock and stroked it. "Stay up. Watch me come."

Crowley wanted nothing more. Sam stroked with speed, and his thighs clamped along Crowley's body. But his face was the storm - eyes shut tight and his teeth buried in his lower lip. His breath came in vocal grunts, louder and harder to hold back. His hand pumped furiously, shaking the bed and Crowley matched it, caught up in Sam's mouth opening to call out that he was going to break, right now—

The tight grimace smoothed out, melted into blissful relief. Sam's parted lips pulled back into a smile, and Crowley wrote it to his mind, etched the transformation from pleasured agony to euphoria. He wanted it on film. Nothing more. Just Sam, just his face in these moments, over and over.

His eyes opened, and the aim of his gaze was perfect.

"Let me watch you do it."

Crowley let the veil drop and Sam caught his chin, held it so Crowley faced him.

"Look at me. Don't look away."

He could look at Sam all day. Watch him for hours. Sam looking back pinned him. He looked at Sam's mouth, curled with satisfaction.

"Eyes up here. Let me see you."

He wanted to watch Crowley the way Crowley watched _him._ Crowley feasted on the sight of Sam Winchester. Sam wanted the same.

"Good," Sam said, and dragged his nails down Crowley's back, nodded when Crowley's eyes widened. "So good."

Crowley didn't fight the need. He let go of holding back, and kept his eyes on Sam until his orgasm mowed him down and he couldn't, body locked until it all came loose with Crowley's ragged gasp and hoarse grunt. Sam's hands drifted through the hair that stood on end at the small of his back and his eyes flew open. Sam licked his lips and watched him with the most carnally _interested_ expression Crowley had ever seen. He didn't look at the women Crowley had watched him with. He didn't look at the man from the alley like that.

It was his. It belonged to him. And that wishful film in his mind got a little longer.

*

Cleanup turned into a makeout session that saw them back on the bed. Sam didn't believe in one and done, though he was more likely to use his hands or press their bodies together and make Crowley come from the slick undulation of his hips and abs. But this time Sam seemed more cuddly, groaning a bit at some movements.

"So have I convinced you of the advantages of roleplay?" Sam asked, laughing

"Everyone loves a Succubus," Crowley said.

"I liked my succubus," Sam agreed.

"We can do it again sometime," Crowley offered. "The other part about them taking any form their target desires is true. I can find any body you like. Hair, eyes, build, name a dozen if you want."

Sam shook his head. "No."

"No?"

"I want you like this," Sam said.

 

**Var. 8: Quadrille**

 

The coin got cold not even three days later, shortly after delivery of one djinn, pissed off and defiant, even in the face of Crowley in a hazmat suit. The protection was marvelous, but somehow it lacked... personal touch.

Sam had pretty good timing. Crowley had gotten a good three hours in with that djinn before he called. But was the politeness because he'd needed to get away?

Crowley knocked on the door of the motel. Sam's car was parked out front. No Impala in sight. Maybe he'd driven to another motel to hide it.

But when he got inside the pearly gray and peach remodel, there was evidence of all Sam's things put in their usual places.

He was alone. Crowley turned a big grin on for him.

"And now for the hero's welcome," Crowley said. "Good to see you back in one piece, Moose."

"Drink?"

"Love one. So, here's to success."

"We even managed to bring one back for you," Sam said.

"And Dean stayed."

"I told you that he would," Sam said. "He doesn't want to leave. And he damn near got himself killed."

"You don't miss him?"

"I'm used to him," Sam said. "I could work with him again, if he wanted to come. But he doesn't."

"You sure?"

"I asked him. Just to make sure. He is where he is." Sam drank the last of his scotch. "So I guess... things are still the same."

 _Moving game to game,_ Crowley thought, and extinguished that lyric with a drink.

*

Crowley could zap himself into a moving car. Lucky thing.

"All right, what's so important you have to make your excuses about toni—"

Crowley turned around. Stared. Looked at Sam. Looked back. "A baby? Cheers, mate, but I haven't broken that particular dietary taboo."

"Crowley, seriously," Sam kept his eyes on the road. "I am not even kidding you right now. I don't know what to do with it."

"You're asking me? That kid will start howling the second I lay a hand on it. They can smell fear."

"Are you afraid of the baby?"

"Are you?"

"I'm _intimidated_ by the baby."

"I'm not even going to make fun of you," Crowley said. "That's the manliest admission I've heard in a month. So. What are you going to do?"

"I have an idea but I need backup. I'm calling Dean."

"Well, Crowley said. "I guess we're off for the night."

"Sorry," Sam said. He tapped his cheek. "Put 'er there. I'll call you."

Crowley rolled his eyes, but leaned over to kiss Sam's cheek. Sam turned and caught it on the mouth.

Crowley was smiling when he went back to Hell.

 

 

*

Sam didn't call for a couple of days, and when he did, the coin got hot and then ice-cold.

"Fuck," Crowley said.

"I'm sorry?" his tailor asked.

"Nothing," Crowley shrugged the jacket off. "Little emergency at the plant. The fall on the collar is perfect, Hiram. Top work."

He hated having to stop a fitting for bad news, and he hated dropping everything every time Sam Winchester called.

He needed to stop this. Everything was going out of control, and for what?

He arrived to one of those mid-century futurist rooms. Rather nice.

"The decor tells me Dean's not back yet. Nice look. Optimistic." Crowley flipped his coin and caught it.  
"So, Moose. Where's the fire?"

"It nearly worked, but we couldn't take the Alpha down.”

“I heard.”

“Now Dean knows about Alphas," Sam said. "And he figured out what I was doing with the baby."

"I didn't think he'd believe it of you," Crowley said.

Sam sat down on the bed. "You think Dean thinks I can do no wrong? He mistrusted me because I’ve been up for a year and didn't call, didn't write. He grew up correcting me. He believed it of me."

"Never mind that," Crowley said. "Will he stay away, or decide you need to be put on the straight and narrow?"

Sam pursed his lips. "We don't have a lot of time. He'll be chasing after me any day now. Let's change things. If the coin is cold, then phone me, but if it's hot, then it's okay to come over."

 

 

*

The coin got cold the next evening. Crowley sighed, and pulled out his phone.

"Hey."

"Hey. What's going on?"

"He's back. Lisa sent him away. He's on his way here."

There was nothing to say to that.

"Hey, I told you. I don't sleep. Nothing much has to change."

 

**Var. 9: Argentine Tango**

 

The room Sam calls Crowley to has economy all over, and while the Impala's in the parking lot, Sam's car is gone.

"So. Moose. Squirrel's already got you back to riding shotgun."

"Angels wrecked my car," Sam said.

He could get another one. But he just let it go and went back to being a passenger in Dean's life.

"So. Are we here for sex, or did you want to talk about feelings?"

"I talked to an angel named Balthazar, and he asked me something," Sam leaned against the counter, crossed his ankles. "And now I'm asking you something."

"What did he ask?"

"If I knew how valuable souls were," Sam said.

The floor sagged under Crowley's feet.

"Crowley, do monsters have souls?"

He wished it was just the car.

"Yes."

"Do I have a soul?"

"No, Sam. You don't," Crowley said.

"You knew that."

"It's why you can kiss me, Sam. It's why you can put me on that bed and fuck me senseless and then drink a protein shake and do it again." Crowley pointed at the bed behind him, but didn't break his gaze. "Any kiss, Sam. Any sexual contact with a being of a certain caste marks a mortal soul with that being's ownership."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Did you give a fuck before?"

"No," Sam said. "You're right."

He turned the bottle of Smokehead so the label faced Crowley. "Drink?"

*

Sam called on Crowley less often now that Dean's back. He expected that. Sam wanted to get down to fucking much faster than when they had as much time as they wanted. He expected that too.

So Sam's brushing, sensual kiss hello that turned into Crowley's favorite way to taste a new whiskey was the reason why the back of his neck prickled, but he let it go and kissed back.

"Was that scotch aged in a Madeira barrel?" Crowley asked, when his heels were back on the chocolate carpet. The room wasn't as nice as the ones Sam picked out while hunting solo.

Some things were just different.

Sam smirked. "Try a little more, Highness." He drank a bit more whiskey and kissed Crowley again.

He wasn't going to have long to drink. "Frisky today, Stretch?"

"I just need to unwind. Bobby's sore about the soul thing." Sam took Crowley's wrist and tugged him closer, and Crowley sat straddled on his lap.

"Has he wasted a whole year on that? He's only got nine."

"Why not give it back? Never mind. Not in the manual." Sam's hands wander up Crowley's thighs. "What do you think of the Glenmorangie?"

"It's a call to earlier times," Crowley said, and finished the dram. "I think it'll be stunning in another twenty years."

"I'm glad you approve, Highness." Sam drew Crowley close and tasted the scotch on his tongue while he undid Crowley's tie.

"You only have an hour?"

"Dean went to go see Lisa," Sam said. "We have all night."

"Good news to me," Crowley said.

"Good," Sam said, and gave him the curl of his mouth that did for a smile these days. "Do you want another before I get you naked?"

* 

Sam liked to look at Crowley, and demand that Crowley look back. It was simultaneously hot and uncomfortable. Sam in a passion was sublime, and that interested, intent look he wore when watching Crowley went straight to Crowley's cock.

But part of him couldn't hold still under that gaze. Something in him wanted to flinch and hide from it, and he fought that part hard. He let Sam see him. Let him see the bewilderment he still felt that Sam had chosen him as his only regular sex partner.

Some would say lover. Some thought that sex this good without bloodshed had to come from tender feelings. But this wasn't love, not for him and not for Sam.

It was a feast, and he and Sam were always hungry. Sam fed on the sight of him, so Crowley let him see how the slippery rubbing of their cocks made his nostrils flare when Sam used his strength to plank his body just above Crowley's and move, keeping them pressed together just enough so Crowley could jerk his hips as he listened to Sam tell him to come—

He could never keep his eyes on Sam when it happened. A glittering electric pressure rushed up to the top of his head and then he couldn't look any more. He had to keep his eyes shut until it pushed its way out of his body in hard bursts.

When it happened to Sam, he couldn't stay quiet. He never really tried to muffle his noises but when Sam came it was a song of grunted, sometimes sighing moans. He could keep his eyes open, but Crowley doubted he saw anything but the white smash of lights that burst a half second before it took over. But he could watch Sam go from pinpointed on him to sightless ten thousand times and it would always be different.

They got there quick, this time, and Sam kept kissing Crowley as they got cleaned up, kissed him while he dragged Crowley out of the shower and back into bed.

"You _a_ _re_ frisky today."

"You don't want to do it again?"

"Never said that. Come on down here, Moose, and have a break."

"I guess this thing with Bobby is bothering me," he said, and guided Crowley's mouth to his throat.

Crowley stopped.

Nothing bothers Sam.

"What?"

Sam never talked about work once they got naked. "Sam. Is there an inspiration for the superior shagging you're promising me?"

"What? Oh. No. Sorry. It's just on my mind. I don't want it to be."

"Would it be off your mind if I gave Bobby his soul back?"

Sam lifted his head, turned to look at him. "Would you do that?"

"No."

"Then let's not worry about it."

That didn't make the hairs on the back of Crowley's neck stop prickling. "I want another drink," Crowley said. "You?"

*

Sam leaves him a text message about an hour after Crowley heads back to the lab: "Going way out of town. Back as soon as I can."

Way out of town? Crowley stares at the message, and then shakes his head. Souled or not, Sam's pretty good about keeping Crowley in touch. It's something his possessive nature appreciates.

Not that he owns Sam Winchester. But he can't help what he is.

He sends a text back: Ok.

He goes back to impressing the importance of improving acquisition statistics. In this economy, there's no reason not to push for better sales or rely on the payoff that's still just over the horizon.

But he pulls out his phone, from time to time, to see if Sam has texted him anything else.

 

 

*

Fuck. He'd been gotten out of the way.

Crowley felt that tingle on the soles of his feet. He knew it was a trap, and he had to spring it. Damn that spell. He'd never dreamed anyone would have the nerve to bother him with it as thoroughly as...

Yeah, Bobby fucking Singer.

"Well, let's get this over with," Crowley muttered at the air, and bent dimensions and physical space in a blink.

"You look like hammered crap."

"And you're a vision, as always." Really, Bobby telling him he looked bad? Maybe his vessel needed a spa weekend and a gold leaf facial.

He knows why he's here. Bobby won't give up until he dies. Crowley would be interested in what he has this time, but he is tired. Worn out, and he finds himself talking about it.

He doesn't talk to Sam about HHell. They talk about the monster trap-and-don't-release program, but they don't talk about Hell. But here he is, telling Bobby the visible corner of his frustrations, and it's going too far.

"Feels good to get it off my chest. We should make this a thing."

"Do I look like Dr. Phil to you?"

Oh Bobby. Crowley half wished they could be friends, but ... different worlds. Maybe in Hell. Once Bobby got over the whole damnation thing.

Bobby revealed the reason why he's called Crowley here today, and Crowley can't help but admire the persistence. It's too bad that Bobby thought that Crowley would care, but 'A' for effort.

"You picked the wrong bargaining chip this time, my friend." Bobby would try again. And maybe do better. This could be fun, in an irritating sort of way.

"He ain't a chip," Bobby said. And then he found out what Bobby really wanted from Gavin.

_Going way out of town._

Sam set him up.

That little bastard.

Sam betrayed him.

Sam and Dean Winchester have his bones.

"It's a myth," he says. But Bobby knows it isn't. He'd tested his hypothesis. He knows he's won.

Crowley erased the contract. Returned the soul. He barely remembered he has to let Bobby break the devil's trap. But he's in Scotland in an instant.

 

 

 *

"I believe those are mine."

Dean flicks his lighter. "You know, now that I think about it, maybe I'll just napalm your ass anyhow."

He would, too. They'd do anything. Break any promise. Dishonor any deal.

But Sam extinguished the flame of the lighter in Dean's hand. "Dean, he's a dick, but a deal's a deal."

Oh, that's the fucking end, trying to defend Crowley. After what he'd done! "I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Moose. Get _bent_."

They stood and watched as Crowley collected his bones and left. Sam screwed him. Screwed him. All that talk about no deals, all those nights, they didn't mean anything.

They did. Crowley knows that they did. Not love. But — they were alone, outside those anonymous rooms all over America. Inside them, they touched. And Crowley forgot that he couldn't trust anyone. That even when they touched, they were still alone.

 

**Var. 10: Pasa Doble**

 

That bastard summoned him. Summoned him!

And fuck him, he came to the summoning.

He didn't glare at Sam. He waited.

"I tried to warn you," Sam said. "I really did."

Oh go to hell, Sam Winchester. He was really trying to make up? "I don't want to hear it."

"But I got you closer to the alpha vampire," Sam said.

He was trying to make it up to him? In what universe would Crowley kiss and make up with the man who unearthed his bones?

"The new flowers and candy," Crowley sneered. There was no devil's trap. He could leave right now. But he wanted to stay. Fuck, Crowley.

"I used Dean to do it because he hurt you."

How did he know exactly what to say? Damn him.

But Crowley knew what to say too. "You used him, but he's in a motel room the mirror image of this one five doors down. Isn't he."

Crowley already knew the answer would be silence. It still sliced through him when Sam didn't say anything.

_Sam Winchester is loyal too._

 

*

So Sam thought he could win his way back with a little suffering? No. But Crowley wanted to give him a chance. He hated that. But he could use Sam's desire to get his favorite piece of ass back to keep the hunt for an alpha striking hot.

He went through channels. He told Samuel to tell Sam to tell Dean to meet him at the time and place of his choosing, and when he gets there, Dean is already trying to find a way to renege.

That's the real problem. Sam's loyalty to a man who cares nothing at all for honorable conduct. Sam only had a piece of his moral self--that loyalty to Dean.

But maybe there was some loyalty to Crowley, too.

He told Dean what the new deal was, and Dean performed exactly as expected, complete with stinkface.

"I've done some shady stuff in my time, but I am not doing this. No."

Crowley knew he would say no, but he's still glad he did.

"Ten quid says you will." Crowley said, and Sam yelled in pain.

He's never hurt Sam before. Made him cramp from being held in the same position, yes. Moving a little too fast with the family pride when Sam was bent over and demanding it, yes. Bites? Oh plenty. But all that was just playing. The burn spreading on Sam's hand was the barest of torture, and the image of Sam strapped down in his theatre tempts him.

"You like pain, Sam? You like Hell?"

Crowley _wanted_ to hurt Sam. He wanted Dean to be mulish. He wanted Sam to suffer because he chose Dean. Even though he always would choose Dean.

But it's settled. They're working for him and they know it, now. Crowley controls them.

The plan needed Sam and Dean Winchester.

 

**Var. 11: Bassadanza**

 

The rush of wingbeats and the agonized wailing of the ground greet Castiel's arrival.

Crowley doesn't even turn around. He's watching a particularly squirmy spot where phalanges struggle, barely broken through the ground. An eyeball flinches away from the questing digit.

"Sam Winchester is loyal, Crowley."

"Can it, featherface."

"I'm sorry. I tried to warn you."

That finger is now fingers, swaying. They sink under the flesh, rise again until a whole hand emerges. The miracle of reconstitution. It's fascinating, really.

"Since you're here, answer me some questions while I wait for this one to be reborn. She's right on schedule," Crowley said, and kept watching that struggling hand. "Did you know you hauled him out of the pit without his soul?"

"I suspected." Castiel turns to Crowley. It might not be to push this rebirthing out of his line of sight. "But Sam and Dean are too close to the operation. And you need to be off the board before they take you out."

"I'm not backing out of the deal."

"I didn't mean that," Castiel said. "Being close to Sam is hurting your objectivity. You need to break the thread."

Crowley's watches that hand. Look at it strive, fighting to unbury itself, disrupting the other bodies in the way.

"So what do you want me to do?"

"You can do your end better if the Winchesters think you're dead."

"And how will they believe that?"

"If they are the ones to kill you."

"You intrigue me," Crowley said. "And I have just the patsy to help you make it authentic."

"You do?"

Crowley nods at the ground.

A mound of jellied flesh and grasping limbs gyrate. The hand is an arm, now, stretched to the green-black sky. It reaches, groping until it grabs a femur, and pulls.

The head that emerges is black haired and covered in slime. The skin is new, waxy, but the round, dimpled face is distinctive under the sheen of blood that coats her. Meg fights the grasping ground to free her other arm.

Crowley touches Castiel's shoulder and he blinks them to his office.

"Pawn to King four. Once you find where Meg escapes, point her my way, hm?"

"I will help the Winchesters kill you, Crowley."

"And then I'll take my chew toy back."

"If you do, don't let her escape you again."

*

Balthazar isn't an easy mark. He's listening, but he's looking hard for the catch, the hook in the lure. But Crowley's the best closer in Hell for a reason.

Crowley will win him over. Balthazar was committed to two things: the pleasures of the flesh and helping his dear friend Castiel. He would suspect that Crowley had a way to profit from the deal, but he didn't need to know about the whole plan.

Crowley accepted the tall flute and saluted the carnal angel with it. Balthazar was a champagne man, and the Krug '82 was so, so cold.

Balthazar settled into the chaise section of his horseshoe shaped sofa, now clear of handsome young men and pretty young women. They had all picked up their clothes and kissed Balthazar on the way out, sweetly obedient to his request to clear the room. It halfway made Crowley wonder if he'd been so deeply lured by Sam if he wasn't in the Crossroads division.

But Balthazar lounged and had a sip of his champagne. He rolled his head in slow circles, releasing the tension in his neck.

"Now that I've got my go juice, I'm ready to hear how I can help the cause with a single, elegant act."

 _Here we go._ "There are points in history, milestones, where a single action could save thousands of lives, preserving thousands of souls. Souls that would survive, and make all those adorable little soul babies."

"As simple as that?" Balthazar asked.

"Simple if you can be there at the right moment. I'm locked in time. You are not."

"And we can tally all those souls on our side?"

"Castiel needs to win the war in Heaven, Balthazar. I have a vested interest in that. You can help him do this."

"And now we come to it. What do you want me to do?"

Crowley had him. Even if he took time to think about it. "I have an event in mind. Call it a test run," Crowley said, and sipped. "You'll need to go back to—"

Balthazar stiffened. "Hello," he said, staring westward. "Someone has summoned me."

"I'll back you up," Crowley said, and flipped him a coin. Balthazar caught it just before he vanished. 

* 

Balthazar blinked to somewhere in South Dakota, by Crowley's reckoning, and that meant Balthazar was in Winchester trouble. Crowley had opened his big mouth and said he'd back Balthazar up, but unlike some backstabbing Winchesters he could name, a promise is a promise.

He arrived invisibly to an unwarded warehouse. Balthazar wandered around Sam Winchester insouciantly and couldn't take his eyes off him.

"Name your terms," Sam said.

Sam Winchester didn't want to be ensouled. Crowley wouldn't want it back either, after what Michael and Lucifer must have been doing to it.

"I'll do it for free," Balthazar said. Crowley made a face. _No you won't, you lecher._

Balthazar probably isn't in any danger, but Crowley lingers. Balthazar explained to Sam about scarring his vessel, and Sam looked in the direction of Bobby's house. The moment the resolution focused in Sam's eyes, Balthazar spoke up.

"There _is_ one thing you can do for me."

Sam looked back at Balthazar and smirked. "I thought there might be, Angel."

Crowley's heart clenched.

"You seem like a capable young man. I'd like to have you in my bed."

"Aha. Once?"

"Why don't you decide after?"

"After we're finished the spell," Sam clarified. "But it's a date."

Crowley had told Sam it was over. Sam thought he was dead.

He shouldn't feel this.

Crowley didn't go back to finish the conversation with Balthazar. He stayed, and hated himself for watching Sam go back to the house and try to kill Bobby, hated himself for fleeing mindlessly when Death came, hated himself for hovering invisibly by Sam's bedside as he lay in a state deeper than sleep.

Crowley wondered if it would have been better if Sam had killed Bobby. He wouldn't be in this coma. He might never get up from this bed again. This is what Sam Winchester's loyalty got him, he realized. A narrow cot and an inspiring career as a non-responsive body.

Switching his clandestine sex partner to Balthazar would be better than this. Then Crowley could hate him. There would be something to hate.

_Wake up, damn you._

_Wake up so I can hate you. Wake up so I know what to feel._

_Wake up so I don't have to hate myself for wanting you awake._

 

 

*

And then one day, Sam woke up, and didn't remember a thing.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is complete. 
> 
> That doesn't mean there might not be another.
> 
> this story takes place during the year Sam was out of the pit, up to halfway through season 6. I've made some speculations about what could have happened in the gaps.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I'm ceeainthereforthat on tumblr, too.


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